The bluebottles. Sure they have me only demented entirely.
The fat, zing-pinging crazy bluearse little bastards. The daft, dirty, harebrained, erratic infuriating fuckers.
In unemployment, I spend so much time at home now, most of it with my head spinning like a madcap meerkat as I stand there all squinty and seething and bitter with a rolled up Buy and Sell, swatting and windmilling at them like Basil Fawlty rave dancing after six ecstasy tablets.
There's no fewer than four of the fuckers careering around the place as I type. Crashing into the mirror, ting-tinging their curranty bodies off the lightbulbs, banging off each other in such a fucking bastard hurry to get to where they don't even know where they're going because as soon as they get there, they're up and off again for the sheer fuckery of it all, the horrible fuckwits. The stupid, pointless noisy shower of farts with wings that they are.
The buzzing and the droning. The buzzing and the droning. It's like listening to a mini version of the Battle of Britain.
And when you manage to get one of the little fuckers to sit still for a minute (how their mothers cut their hair I'll never know) and squish him satisfyingly with much aplomb and no little pent up aggression, they go splat all over the wall and then you have to wipe up the goo. They don't go quietly, and they don't go quietly either if you get me.What a risible, detestable waste-of-time of a species.
So today, I was hoovering, and in a fit of volcanic pique I started chasing one of the irritant little shites round the living room brandishing the vacuum cleaner for all the world like William Wallace with a broadsword. I was sweating like a racehorse after ten minutes' comical lunging and stabbing at the air and tippy-toe Elmer Fudd sneaking, but oh! I tell you, the immense feeling of satisfaction and achievement as I snared me one of the varmints and he struggled to escape the pull of the roaring Miele 1500 and was sucked in with just a gentle thwack of his rigid blue body on the tube. And then his screaming, protesting whine trailing off like a baddy getting chucked over a cliff in a Bond movie, as he travelled on down to meet his maker in the guts of the machine. Oh joy.
I hate bluebottles. Even when I don't have a window open, the loathesome, madcap, worse-than-any-little-bastard-off-Supernanny lunatic motherfuckers still manage to get in. They get into the window seal from outside and sit there until I do open the window, and fly right in to commence their nonsensical, deranged skittering and flittering about the place. I've never known anything alive expend so much energy doing absolutely zero. Much ado about nothing. Sound and fury, signifying nothing.
And how in the name of all that's logical can they manage to find a crack the width of a hair through which to get in, and then when you open the window wide in the hope they'll fly out of their own accord, they'll happily spend hours hurling themselves endlessly against the closed pane beside it?
Idiotic, pinball, berserk, careering Bluebottle bastards. I'll commit a murder before this day is done.
Six Nations 2016. France 10 – Ireland 9.
12 hours ago